here today, gone tomorrow

Things are always changing

The problem is, I’d like for them to remain the same

Because I, as a human, am foolish enough to assume that I can imitate what has happened, even do it better next time, or do more of it, or do it differently, and feel the same joy

that joy which is locked in time and space, in a particularity unlike anything else of its kind

I tell myself: I can recreate it, time and time again

To feel a feeling I have already felt, only then for me to feel, in the absence of that first experienced joy, feelings of the next moment being inadequate, and causing then as a consequence, a pang of disappointment, coming across, in its raw form, as something that doesn’t quite feel right.

Why must I crave for constancy, constantly —

When I am told: change is the only constant.

Is that too hard for me to understand, or just difficult for me to comprehend?

Why must then I pursue an emotion that has erupted within me, and has been felt already, has been experienced in all its glory

Is it because I am a sucker for good feelings, you know, chasing after happiness long enough in a desperate attempt at somehow being content?

I can’t believe good, happy, joyous feeling can just pass by

And won’t stay for longer than that

Like their sadder counterparts often do

Which refuse to leave, long after they’ve done their time

Fuck the childhood trauma, fuck it, fuck it for robbing me of my present, and keeping me stuck in my past, turning my newly learned adult language of adulthood into a fucking mime

A show I put up for the onlookers: come, see, how much I have grown since then, please excuse the child still stuck in my body, that comes out of it, silent but active, communicating in an inaudible language, from time to time

I attach myself to moments, far too quickly, and then in letting go of their memory suffer for far too long

Why must I cling to a tingle, felt in a moment in time, in a specific situation, in a particular circumstance

What pleasure do I derive from a laborious reenactment of “special” moments

To put in effort, time, and energy into recreating what has already happened

Is it because I hope to prove Khaled Hosseini wrong?

After all, it is his words that cautioned me: “Happiness like this is scary, you know? They only let you be this happy if they are preparing to take something away from you.”

Loss, is that my only fear?

Trading my smile for a tear?

The world is imbalanced, and so is my mind

The only thing this fear takes away from me is the fear that post feeling a happy feeling, I may just be alright.

That there isn’t a crowd of dementors, standing a few miles apart from the source of joy, looking at my mopey scared self, yelling in communion: “You lose! Boo. Here’s some sadness, for the happiness you felt earlier. Goddamn, Khaled was right.”

Moments, forced to repeat themselves for our pleasure, stemming from a need to desire, eventually come to a screeching halt at the line of marginal utility

And then, little by little, begin to lose their value, importance, and thrill, just by virtue of repetition, that challenges, and in that process, alters their novelty

I take for granted what I do have, what I now have, and seek to create more and more of what I have had, and would still like to have more of

Greed for joy is still greed, and greed is a vice, not a virtue.

I do not stay with what has happened, it is not enough until it continues to happen, until I may not want for it to happen again

And then I can’t stay with it, because it’s over now, ended and done with

And is now, because of what has happened next, difficult to recall, almost impossible to process

I experience sadness generously, and I am stingy with joy

I often tell people, “I’m not doing too well, I am having a hard time.”

And ask for their ear to tell stories to

To find comfort and advice

Yet, I stutter, almost hide, feelings of joy

Feel a little bit pompous, for even describing them to a mortal passerby

“I am fucking happy, actually, never been better.” belies an undertone of sarcastic deprecation

When it should just be as urgent and important and valid a news as its sadder counterpart: “I am fucking depressed, actually, and I wish I could be doing better.”

“I had a fun, fun, fun fucking evening.”

And why not leave it at that — that should be just enough, god knows it’s all I’d like!

Alas, I try to extend it further, take it to next date, then to the one next weekend, then to the next one, then to the next one with the parents and the insecurities and the oddly phrased texts and miscommunications and misunderstandings and the hungry toxicity of repeated, hurtful patterns, that seek to consume its hosts, only for it to follow up with, “But we broke up because, the guy didn’t really get my vibe.”

Why must I ruin it with the moments afterwards, thinking I can hold onto that ephemeral feelings of pure, unprecedented, unrepeated, joy, in new and changed settings, with so much time passed by?

Life changes little by little, minute by minute, day by day.

And yet, I yearn to hold onto moments, feel them over and over again for days, months, years, sometimes a lifetime.

I wonder why.

Things pass, all things do. That is the unwritten law of the universe, and has been for all this time.

Do I ever take a moment to wonder why?

Or am I too caught up with extending the happy ephemeral moment further; caught up with working against the laws of the universe, trying to recreate it until it is saturated, depleted of its joy, until the mess it makes, refuses to leave, doesn’t pass by soon enough, and can only make me cry.

Things pass, all things do.

So now, I wonder if it’s okay to cry, for that too, will eventually create room for a renewed, unprecedented, unexpected joy.

It always does.

And the cycle repeats itself, till we die.